The Promise
by pgrabia
Summary: House fulfills a promise made to Wilson with the help of a past love. Set post-series finale (Ep. 8x22). House/Wilson pre slash, House/Stacy friendship-UST. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. Adult concepts and coarse language.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: ****The Promise**

**Author: pgrabia**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D. and its characters do not belong to me. I am only borrowing them for entertainment purposes only and I'm not making any money from this.

**Genre: **Drama/Romance/angst

**Characters/Pairing(s): **G. House, J. Wilson, S. Warner, E. Foreman and other canon characters, OCs/ House/Wilson preslash, House/Stacy friendship-UST.

**Word Count: **~1300

**Spoilers/Warnings: **General spoilers for all seasons up to and including the series finale, 8x22 "Everybody Dies". **Major character death.** Drug and alcohol use, coarse language, adult content.

**Rating: R (M) **(to be safe) unless otherwise advised.

**A/N: **This is my attempt to deal with my hatred of the final story arc in the series. The characters may be OOC. Sorry about that. Sorry too that this fic includes major character death. I don't usually write about that and if you find it to be a trigger for you then you best not read this.

Unbetaed, sorry.

**The Promise**

**Chapter One**

The TV in his cheap motel room wasn't even a flatscreen, and the digital converter box on top of it barely made visible the three channels it managed to pick up. Still, House could make out the famous Times Square ball as it dropped, bringing the 'official' end of old year and beginning of the new.

He took a deep swallow from the bottle of scotch he held. House was stretched out on the lone bed in the room, half-drunk and alone. He was still kicking around because of his promise, made last minute, to the Manipulative Bitch.

"Promise me," said Bitch had gasped. "Promise me, House. I need...to know…that you'll…be okay…."

So House had promised him he would be, never intending to keep the promise. How could he have? He'd lost the only person in his life that made his life make any kind of sense.

That had been a month and a half ago, and without trying—without doing much of anything—he had still stuck around, but to say that he was okay…well, that would be stretching it. A lot.

Still, a promise was a promise. House rarely made them because once he did he felt obliged to keep them. It had been the last wish of the most important person in the world.

He set the bottle down on the bedside table, next to the phone, and picked up the receiver. He'd memorized the number and now, even through the haze caused by the alcohol, he remembered it, and dialed. It rang a few times, and he was about to hang up for the second time that night when someone picked up.

"Happy New Year!" a female voice said over the background sounds of noise-makers, kazoos, and Auld Lang Syne.

For a moment he had no voice, and no courage, either. But he'd promised.

"Hello?" she said.

House cleared his throat. "Hello, Stacy."

There was no actual response from the other end of the line though House could have sworn he heard her curse.

"Stacy," he said a little more loudly. "It's me. It's Greg."

There was another pause about the length of a heartbeat before there was a response. "You bastard!"

Her voice was quavering and soft.

"I'm alive," he told her. "Don't hang up! I had to do it…for Wilson. But I made a promise to him before he…well, he's…he's gone. I need your help to keep it. You can hate me after that. Okay?"

She was crying.

"Okay."

She met him in a small, non-descript diner on the outskirts of Trenton. He sat at a table in the far corner of the dining room, nursing a cup of coffee when he looked up and saw her enter. Just as always she was beautiful, her dark brown tresses pulled back; she wore a minimal amount of make up and was dressed in a blazer, blouse and pencil skirt.

He stood up to greet her. "Stacy—"

She cut him off by hugging him tightly, burying her face in his shoulder. House could feel her body trembling. He briefly hugged her back then gently pushed her away and gestured that she sit down.

"I can't believe you're really here in front of me," she told him as she sat opposite him in the booth. "You have a hell of a lot of explaining to do."

A waitress came over with a pot of coffee. She topped off House's cup. Stacy turned over the cup in front of her and the waitress filled it before leaving them both a menu and moving on to the next table.

"Rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated," he said quietly, keeping his head down and looking around almost nervously. "I had to do it. Wilson needed me for his last few months of life and there was no way I was going miss that by heading back to prison for flushing some tickets down a toilet. I had to do what I did. I don't expect you to understand."

"I understand that you loved him," she replied gently, nodding. "I understand _why_ you faked your death, but _how_ you did so is a mystery to me."

"I had someone in the coroner's office that owed me a big favor," House told her, keeping his voice low so as not to be overheard by anyone at neighboring tables. "I gave him my dental records and he switched them with those of one of my clinic patient's, who died of a heroin overdose in that factory. I went with Oliver to the factory to meet up with his dealer. I…I shot up with him and when I regained my senses I found him dead. When I managed to escape the fire, I realized that faking my death was the only way I was going to be able to be with Wilson until the end. I called in my favor then lay low until the funeral. Wilson didn't even know the truth until I texted him at the funeral during his 'moving' eulogy. I hated the idea of making you all mourn me but it was necessary that only Wilson knew the truth. I went under an assumed name with some very good and very expensive fake ID. We left town together and travelled the country on motorcycles until he became too sick to continue travelling. We rented a beach house in southern Oregon until…." House didn't finish. He simply couldn't say the words; the experience had been bad enough.

Stacy touched his hand briefly. "I'm sorry, Greg."

House nodded. "Anyway, one of the last things Wilson did was make me promise to carry on with life and be okay without him. I considered leaving the country…I probably still should but I'm not going to. I'm going to reclaim my life, for what it's worth anymore, because I think that's what Wilson would have wanted. I called you because I need you to help me find the best legal representation possible before I turn myself in to the police."

Stacy spoke up. "You'll still face prison time. You realize that, don't you? The law doesn't look favorably on felons fleeing from justice."

"I have no illusions," he confirmed with a curt nod of his head. "That felony vandalism charge was bullshit. If it hadn't been for that I wouldn't have needed to flee justice, as you put it. I had to be there with Wilson. My hands were tied."

"A jury just might understand that, if you even get to present your case before a jury. A good lawyer would be looking at arranging some kind of plea deal," Stacy said with a sigh. She reached across the table to touch his hand; it was like she had to do so to convince her that he really was substantial and not some trick of her imagination. She then reached into her purse and pulled out a business card, handing it to him. House took it and looked at it. The name on the card was Deacon Bernard, Attorney at Law, followed by a couple of phone numbers. Scribbled on the back of the card in Stacy's hand was another phone number.

"The number on the back is his private number," she told him. "Call that number. He's waiting for your call. He's one of the best criminal attorneys on the east coast, if not in the country. For your sake you need to hire me as part of your legal team. That way this entire conversation is privileged information and I can keep your secret. When you've made contact with him and set up a time to meet, let me know and I'll go with you."

House nodded, then smirked wryly. "I'm certain that Mark is going to be thrilled that I've insinuated myself back into your life."

Stacy shrugged at the mention of the name. "Mark and I broke up four months ago. We're in the process of a divorce, so what he likes or dislikes doesn't make one damned bit of difference."

House hesitated a moment before commenting. "I…wish I could say that I'm sorry to hear that, but I'm not."

She smiled sadly and shook her head at him. "I know," Stacy told him. She sighed. "I wish I knew what it is about you that I can't stop caring about you. You're like my Vicodin."

"I should be," he replied, pulling out a bottle of Vicodin from his pocket and rattling it in front of her. "I've ingested enough of these things in my life."

"I was a mess when I was called concerning your death, you know," she told him softly. "The next time I receive news like that you had better damned well be dead!"

He smiled knowingly, covering her hand briefly with his own and squeezing. He then lifted his coffee cup up as in a toast. "To my resurrection."


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: ****The Promise**

**Author: pgrabia**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D. and its characters do not belong to me. I am only borrowing them for entertainment purposes only and I'm not making any money from this.

**Genre: **Drama/Romance/angst

**Characters/Pairing(s): **G. House, J. Wilson, S. Warner, E. Foreman and other canon characters, OCs/ House/Wilson preslash, House/Stacy friendship-UST.

**Word Count: **~1600

**Spoilers/Warnings: **General spoilers for all seasons up to and including the series finale, 8x22 "Everybody Dies". **Major character death.** Drug and alcohol use, coarse language, adult content.

**Rating: R (M) **(to be safe) unless otherwise advised.

**A/N: **This is my attempt to deal with my hatred of the final story arc in the series. The characters may be OOC. Sorry about that. Sorry too that this fic includes major character death. I don't usually write about that and if you find it to be a trigger for you then you best not read this.

Unbetaed, sorry.

**The Promise**

**Chapter Two**

Seeing Stacy again had been bittersweet and if he hadn't been wary of being seen and recognized House would have tried to spend more time with her after lunch. Unfortunately, he had to keep a low profile until he knew what was going to happen with the criminal lawyer Stacy had set him up with.

Back at his motel House popped a Vicodin before he picked up the phone and studied the business card Stacy had given him. Deacon Bernard worked out of the law offices of Bernard, Clayton, and Steinberg, located in Newark. He flipped the card over and dialed the private number written on the back. It was mid-afternoon on a workday so he wasn't surprised when he was sent to Bernard's voicemail. He debated leaving a message, then decided that it would probably be safer not to. He would call again later, perhaps after office and court hours, when he was more likely to find the lawyer available to talk.

He spent the rest of the afternoon watching soap operas followed by Judge Judy on the crummy TV, bored and uncomfortable in the stuffy, cramped quarters in which he found himself. Words could not adequately express how tired he was of living the life of a nomad. He was tempted to go out for a ride on his motorcycle but he was in Trenton, which was too close to Princeton, and people who might recognize him, for comfort. Nobody but Stacy and this Bernard guy could know that he was alive, at least for now. If he didn't like what Bernard had to say, he wanted to be able to leave town incognito and remain under his alias, Wilson Thomas.

When the dinner hour came he found himself hungry. There was a small deli less than a block away from his motel. He walked there, wary of any ice there might be on the ground, bought himself a Reuben sandwich and potato chips and took them back to his room to eat with the beer he had chilling in the small bar fridge. After he ate he decided to try calling Deacon Bernard again.

The phone rang twice before someone picked up.

"Hi, this is Deacon."

House hesitated a heartbeat before responding. "We have a mutual acquaintance in Stacy Warner."

"Ah, hello," Bernard said knowingly, "I've been expecting your call Mr…?"

"You can call me Thomas," House told him, ever wary. "Stacy said you were one of the best defense lawyers she knew. She said you might be able to help me with a problem situation I find myself in."

"Well, I can't say whether I can or can't until I know more about you and your situation," Bernard told him. "If you don't want to talk about it over the phone, and I recommend we don't, then you could come to my office or we could meet somewhere neutral."

"Somewhere neutral," House chose. "Clancy's Pub in Trenton, tomorrow."

"Well, my schedule is full tomorrow during the day but I could meet you in the evening," Bernard agreed. "I know the place so how about I meet you there at eight?"

"Sounds good," House agreed.

"How will I recognize you, Mr. Thomas?"

"I'll be the guy wearing a cap and a classic rock t-shirt with a cane," was the reply.

"Very good. I'll see you then."

"Right," House said before hanging up. His gut told him that this was a good move, so he decided to trust it until logic said to do otherwise. Now all he had to do was wile away the boring hours until the next evening. Staying in motel rooms had been bearable when Wilson had still been around. Now they were a reminder of the good times they'd spent on the road until Wilson had become too ill to travel anymore. He missed Wilson every minute of every day, it seemed. Everything reminded House of his best friend, now passed on. It was a bittersweet thing that he knew he had to learn to live with. There was no way he would ever stop thinking about James Wilson, but he hoped that someday he might actually stop grieving him.

"I'm doing this for you, idiot," he murmured softly, wishing he could hear a sarcastic response back. He would never get to hear Wilson's wit again; it only existed now in his memories. Swallowing hard against the emotions that were wanting to make themselves felt, he returned his attention to the crappy TV set where a movie was about to begin. He had to stop thinking about Wilson for now.

[H]

House dreamed about Wilson every night since the younger man had died. Usually they were memories of things they'd done together, both good and not so good, throughout their two decades of friendship. He tried to direct the dreams as he had them, making things occur that actually hadn't in real life, or vice versa. Sometimes he was successful, but usually not.

That night he dreamt about the day they had stopped riding their motorcycles at a mountain lookout to stretch their legs and have a look at the scenery. They found themselves at a bluff overlooking a lush green valley below.

"_I'm going to miss this," Wilson told him wistfully. House stood beside him and instead of taking in the view of nature he was fixated on his view of Wilson._

"_No you won't," House told him. "You'll be dead, so you won't know or feel or miss anything ever again."_

_Wilson shook his head, tearing his eyes away from the sights to look House in the eye. "I believe there is something after this, House. I know you don't, but I do. I know I'm going to miss a lot of things. I'm especially going to miss you." _

"_Don't miss me," House forced out of his mouth. He was drawn to the look of longing in Wilson's chocolate brown eyes. "Fight this. Agree to treatment."_

_Wilson shook his head and sighed. "I thought you had come to terms with my decision."_

"_I have," House said, having to swallow hard first. "That doesn't mean I have to like it." He tore his eyes away and looked at the stream that ran through the valley below. "You don't want to fight because you don't believe your life is worth the effort and discomfort it will take to preserve it. You're wrong. You've made a difference in this world. I'm just one example."_

"_House—" Wilson tried to interrupt but House wouldn't let him._

"_If not for you, I would be dead right now," House said with certainty. He returned his gaze to meet Wilson's. "Our friendship has saved my life. Because of you I…I know I can change. It might take me the rest of my life, but I can do it, one step at a time. I'm not going to lecture you any further but…but you're worth the fight, even if you can't see it. You mean…the world to me and once you're gone I…I don't know how I will carry on without you. That may sound like I'm making all of this about me but I know it's not. It's about you realizing just how worthy of the fight you really are. The world will be a worse place to live once you're gone."_

_Wilson stared at him long and hard before taking a step and then another toward House. House watched him with curiosity, wondering what the younger man was about to do. Wilson took another step, placing himself well within House's personal space. His movements were cautious, his eyes watching House for any indication of disapproval. House relished the proximity, though he never would have admitted it. In the next moment Wilson closed the gap and wrapped his arms around House, pulling him into an embrace. House had to bite his cheek and swallow hard to keep himself from sobbing. He slowly lifted his arms and hugged Wilson back, reveling in the warmth of his body and the sensation of his best friend's arms around him._

"_Don't fight for me," House murmured into Wilson's ear. "Fight for yourself, and allow me to benefit from having you around longer. I…you know I love you."_

_Wilson's hug only tightened upon hearing that and it took a moment for House to realize that his best friend was sobbing. Ordinarily such proximity and the expression of emotions would put House ill-at-ease, but not this time. This time it only made him feel more connected with the man he was losing to cancer._

"_I…I love you, too," Wilson whispered back. "But it's too late. The cancer has progressed too far—"_

"_Maybe it hasn't!"_

"_It has," Wilson insisted, pulling back far enough to look House in the face. He reached up and wiped a stray tear off of House's cheek. "I can feel it. My fate is sealed, no matter what I do now."_

_House wanted to shake some sense in him but instead simply leaned in and kissed him gently on the mouth, keeping his eyes open ever so slightly to judge Wilson's reaction. Wilson kissed him back just as gently, brown eyes fluttering closed…_

House awoke from his dream, realized that he'd been sobbing in his sleep. He wiped his face dry with both hands. The memory had seemed so real that he could almost taste Wilson on his lips. That had been their first of many kisses.

House grabbed the vial of Vicodin off his bedside table and took two without water.

"Damn you, Wilson," he whispered into the darkness surrounding him. "Why are you making me go on without you?"

His question was met only with silence.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: ****The Promise**

**Author: pgrabia**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D. and its characters do not belong to me. I am only borrowing them for entertainment purposes only and I'm not making any money from this.

**Genre: **Drama/Romance/angst

**Characters/Pairing(s): **G. House, J. Wilson, S. Warner, E. Foreman and other canon characters, OCs/ House/Wilson preslash, House/Stacy friendship-UST.

**Word Count: **~1300

**Spoilers/Warnings: **General spoilers for all seasons up to and including the series finale, 8x22 "Everybody Dies". **Major character death.** Drug and alcohol use, coarse language, adult content.

**Rating: R (M) **(to be safe) unless otherwise advised.

**A/N: **This is my attempt to deal with my hatred of the final story arc in the series. The characters may be OOC. Sorry about that. Sorry too that this fic includes major character death. I don't usually write about that and if you find it to be a trigger for you then you best not read this.

Unbetaed, sorry.

**The Promise**

**Chapter Three**

Clancy's Pub was a small establishment styled after traditional Irish public houses and was hopping with business when Deacon Bernard arrived the next evening. He looked around the busy room with pale green eyes, searching for the man he was supposed to meet with, basing his search on the parameters he'd been given: a man with a cane wearing a cap and classic rock tee. He smiled slightly to himself when he spotted the likely candidate sitting at a two-top booth in the far corner of the room. The subject was middle-aged, late 40's to early fifties with three-days growth of beard, angular face and tall, slender body wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt and jeans with leather motorcycle boots and a cap on his thinning head of hair.

Deacon waded through the crowd of people, past snooker tables and a line of people playing darts, to get to the booth. Upon his arrival the man looked up at him and nodded for Deacon to sit down opposite him. He removed his overcoat and threw it onto the seat before sitting down next to it.

"Mr. Thomas, I presume?" Deacon said mildly.

The other man nodded curtly. "You're the shyster Stacy referred me to, huh?"

"Apparently," Deacon said with a chuckle, " but I'd prefer you called me Deacon or Mr. Bernard than shyster, Dr. House."

The man looked at him, startled, and made to get up from the booth.

"Don't go," Deacon told him, grabbing his wrist. "Sit down before you make a scene and attract what I'm certain would be unwanted attention."

They met gazes briefly before the man nodded and sat down again.

"Stacy told you who I was?" House asked him softly, looking displeased.

"No. I remember seeing you with her at one cocktail party or another that she likely dragged you to," Deacon assured him. "We've met before, briefly, but obviously I'm more forgettable than you are."

"So you know why I need a good defense attorney," House said, cutting to the chase.

"I didn't think dead men needed attorneys," Deacon said with a smile. House rolled his eyes at the remark. "You realize you're presumed dead, I assume."

"Is everything we talk about confidential?" House asked, his eyes scanning the room quickly, nervously, before returning to look at the attorney. Before Deacon could reply a server came to their table. House ordered a scotch, neat. Deacon ordered a pale ale draft and she went on her way to retrieve the drinks.

"Yes, although this is hardly what I would call a private environment in which to meet and discuss your particular situation," Deacon told him.

House shrugged one shoulder. "There's privacy in the middle of a crowd. No one here knows me, so there's no reason for them to be trying to listen in to our discussion."

Deacon had to admit that there was truth to what he said and nodded. "I won't ask you to describe to me here and now how you managed to pass yourself off as being dead. I am curious as to what exactly it is you want from me."

"I want my life and identity back," House said simply. "The New Jersey DOC thinks I'm dead so they're not looking for me as a fugitive of their custody. That was the point. I had a reason for faking my death and I've been living on the lamb all this time. That reason no longer exists, so I want my life, such as it is, back. I'm not stupid. I know I'm facing considerable prison time for escaping custody while on parole. I need you to help me face as little additional prison time as possible."

"Oh, is that all," Deacon replied with a touch of sarcasm. "I'll need to know more of the details of your original incarceration, parole, and reason for your parole being revoked before I can do anything—and I don't make promises. If you play straight with me, I play straight with you. And I don't come cheap."

"I have the funds available to me," House said simply.

"That's good," Deacon told him with a nod. "Stacy told me that you've taken her on retainer as well. Smart move—it protects the both of you. As an officer of the court I have to tell you that I can't help you remain at large, but I'm also bound by client confidentiality. You will have to turn yourself in to the police, and soon."

"I know," House acknowledged, "but I needed to have representation lined up first. So you'll take my case?"

"Provisionally pending learning the details of your story and your willingness to turn yourself in to the authorities," Deacon replied.

The server returned with their drinks and left again.

"I suggest we meet at my office during office hours, and Stacy should be there as well," Deacon told House. "I have an opening tomorrow afternoon at three and nothing after that for the rest of the day. It should give us the time we need to go over the details. After that I'll have a better idea of what we're dealing with and can plan further how your case should be handled. Before I came here tonight I called Stacy. She assured me she's able to make the meeting."

"You work fast," House commented with a nod. "Good. The sooner this is taken care of the better."

"For tonight I want to know one thing," Deacon told him. "Tell me why the authorities were going to revoke your parole."

House took a sip of his drink before answering. "My boss was trying to patronize me. My best friend was dying from cancer and he thought he could replace him by buying hockey season tickets for the both of us. I wanted to give him the message that he could never replace Wilson so…I flushed said tickets down his private toilet. Long story short: they screwed up the plumbing for the entire hospital, a main burst and water flooded and burst through the floor above an MRI, destroying it. Those things aren't cheap. I was charged with felony vandalism."

"Did you know that by flushing the tickets they would cause that kind of catastrophic damage?" Deacon asked.

"No. I don't think anybody could have anticipated that," House admitted, meeting Deacon's gaze. Deacon couldn't help but feel that House was being straight with him. "I wanted to plug up one toilet, not destroy the sewage system or an MRI."

"Interesting," Deacon replied with a nod. "Did anyone actually see you flush the tickets?"

"No, I don't think so," House said with a shrug. "Foreman knew it was me because who else would have had the tickets or the motive but me? Also, the tickets bore my name on them. Who else would have done it?"

"That's a good question," Deacon agreed. "However, if no one actually saw you do it, they may not have a case. We might be able to argue that there is reasonable doubt. I'm also going to do a little digging and find out the details of the damage done and the condition of the hospital's plumbing prior to the incident. If there was something flawed with the plumbing to begin with, such knowledge may work in our favor. If I can get those charges thrown out, it will definitely help the outlook of your case. Rescinding your parole would have been unfair and unjustified. While I can't get you off on the escape from custody issue, I may be able to gather enough ammunition to work out a decent plea deal."

"Just get me the minimum amount of time behind bars," House told him.

Deacon nodded, already piecing ideas together, hoping that luck and the facts were on their side.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Promise**

**Chapter Four**

Stacy picked up House at his motel for the drive from Trenton to Newark to meet with Deacon Bernard at the lawyer's office. Before leaving she made House change out of the t-shirt and jeans to a dress shirt and sports jacket, similar to the way he used to dress for work at the hospital. He won out on one point though: he still wore his t-shirt under the button up.

"So what do you think about Deacon?" Stacy asked him once they were on the road.

House shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road in front of them. "Hard to tell yet. He certain commands a high price so he better be good."

"Do you have the money to cover the legal costs?" she asked, glancing over at him.

House nodded. "Wilson transferred most of his savings over to the bank account of Wilson Thomas, my pseudonym, before he…before. I have a fair amount to work with. Don't worry about it."

"Okay, I won't," she replied. "Deacon told me that after this meeting he should have a good idea of how to approach your case. When we're there today be completely honest with the both of us, Greg. He can't help you if you keep information hidden from him. Anything you tell us will be kept strictly confidential."

"Relax," House told her softly. "I don't want to sabotage this. I promised Wilson I would move on with my life to the best of my ability, and I intend to keep that promise."

"I find it hard to believe that James is actually gone," she commented wistfully, a sadness coming to her eyes that only caused House to experience his own grief more sharply. "Did he suffer much?"

House hated talking about Wilson's illness and death, but he knew that Stacy and Wilson had been friends and that she cared. She deserved an answer.

"Toward the end he suffered a great deal," House answered frankly with a sigh, keeping his gaze everywhere but on Stacy. A knot tightened in his stomach just recalling it. "The last two weeks were the worst. The tumor had grown large enough to interfere with his breathing so he struggled for breath. He refused to go to a hospital so I cared for him at the beach house. He had oxygen and we managed to score some morphine for his pain, but there were times when it simply wasn't enough."

House started when he felt a soft, slender hand take hold of his.

"Shit," Stacy murmured. He could see unshed tears in her eyes. At first he suspected her of pitying him but he quickly realized that instead of pity it was mutual grief that she was expressing. "He was lucky to have you there for him. I'm sorry that the both of you had to go through that."

"Wilson's the one who suffered," House demurred but Stacy shook her head, stealing glances at him.

"We both know he wasn't the only one," she said with certainty. House said nothing to that, knowing that he didn't have to; Stacy knew him perhaps as well as Wilson had.

They didn't talk much for the rest of the drive. Stacy parked her car in the parkade adjacent to the office building that leased two whole floors to Bernard, Clayton and Steinberg. When they arrived on the twelfth floor the receptionist welcomed them in immediately, escorting them through the outer office where two paralegals and a legal secretary worked to the inner offices belonging to the partners in the firm. She stopped outside Bernard's door and knocked lightly before poking her head in and announcing that House and Stacy had arrived. Bernard said something in response before the receptionist opened the door all the way and stepped back to allow them admittance. Bernard rose from behind his large antique mahogany desk and came around it to greet them and shake their hands. House briefly shook hands though he was quick to withdraw his.

"Have a seat and we'll get started as soon as my assistant Susan arrives. She'll take notes of the meeting. Don't worry, she's bound to the same strict confidentiality as I am," the tall, slender fortysomething with greying blond hair told them.

Susan arrived promptly with a voice recorder and a steno pad. She set the recorder onto the desk separating House and Stacy from Bernard and then pulled up a chair out of the way, ready to take notes.

"If you don't mind, I'll be recoding this meeting," Bernard told them. "Nobody but your defense team will hear this recording. Its for my personal use—I can easily go back to a fact or two if necessary without having to call you back to repeat something."

"Fine," House told him tersely. He tried to ignore the tight knot in his belly.

"I'd like to start by asking you some questions, Dr. House," Bernard told him. "I strongly encourage you to be completely honest with me. I need to know the truth. I'm on your side here and I can only do my job properly if you're frank with me, Okay?"

House didn't answer immediately, considering whether or not he could trust the lawyer.

"Greg," Stacy prompted softly.

House nodded, waiting for the questions to begin.

"Describe to me the events surrounding the revoking of your parole to the best of your knowledge," Deacon asked, relaxing into his executive chair, tenting his fingers in front of him as he listened.

"I was charged with felony vandalism for flushing a set of season tickets down my boss's toilet," House said with a sigh. "Foreman—Dr. Eric Foreman—gave them to me to encourage me because I had found out that my best friend was dying from thymic cancer. I was angry that he would assume he could come close to replacing Wilson in my life. It was meant to give him the message that he could never replace Wilson."

"Wilson?" Bernard asked. "Who is this 'Wilson' individual?"

"He_ was_ Dr. James Wilson, Chief of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro teaching hospital and my best friend…my only friend," House clarified, his stomach clenching at referring to Wilson in the past tense.

"Dr. Wilson has since died, correct?" Bernard asked. House nodded.

"Correct. He…died…a month and a half ago from his cancer," House said, finding it hard to use the word _died_.

"I see. Please continue with your account," Bernard told him with empathy.

House nodded. "I had no way of knowing that flushing the tickets would destroy the hospital's entire plumbing system and flood the hospital. I only wanted to plug Foreman's toilet to send him the message. The plumbing blew up throughout the hospital and flooded several floors. An MRI machine was among the casualties. Because the fire department found my name on the tickets they charged me with felony vandalism, which automatically violated my parole. I was to report back to custody after the weekend."

"To your knowledge, did anyone actually see you flush the tickets?" Bernard asked him, repeating the question he'd asked the night before.

House shook his head. "No, no one saw me. I'm certain of it."

"So it was not your intention to damage the hospital's plumbing system as a whole?"

"No," House insisted. "Didn't matter what I said. I was going back to prison for six months…but Wilson only had approximately five months left to live. As it turned out he lasted a little longer than that, but not much."

"Was that when you devised your plan to fake your death and leave Princeton with Dr. Wilson?" Bernard asked.

"No," House answered. "I didn't think of that until after I had escaped the factory fire."

"I see," Bernard acknowledged with a nod. "So how did you come to be in that burning factory in the first place?"

House shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Hey," Stacy encouraged gently, "you can do this, Greg."

He nodded, wishing he could just skip over this part. "I had a patient who was a heroin addict. I was depressed about having to go back to prison rather than spend Wilson's last days of life with him. I just wanted to escape…so I went with him—his name was Oliver Pratt—to a condemned factory to buy some heroin from his dealer. We shot up together in the factory and I was out of it for several hours. When I came down from the dope I discovered that Oliver had ODed and died and somehow the factory had caught on fire and was burning around me. I was nearly killed by a falling beam, but it missed me and collapsed the floor beneath me. I fell into the basement and found a way out through a loading dock. While I was trying to escape the factory Wilson and Foreman had come looking for me. They both saw the beam fall but they didn't realize that it had missed me. They believed I'd died in the fire. Once I was free of the factory I realized that if the authorities were convinced that I had died then I could escape with Wilson and spend the rest of his life with him. I realized that they would find Oliver's burnt body and assume it was mine. All I had to do was call in a favor with someone I knew in the coroner's office. My contact exchanged Oliver's dental records with mine and I was legally declared dead.

"Wilson didn't know that I was still alive until my funeral," House explained. "When he found out he helped me buy fake identification and we left on a final road trip together. We traveled the country on motorcycles until he became too sick to continue. We rented a beach house in southern Oregon and remained there until he died. I phoned in an anonymous report of his death to the police and left before they got to the beach house. I'm assuming his next of kin were called to claim his body for burial following an autopsy, which would be standard procedure. Since then I traveled back east. I promised Wilson I would continue with my life after he died, and that's why I came to you."

"You must have really trusted Wilson to keep your secret, despite the fact that that made him an accessory after the fact," Bernard commented. "You weren't at all concerned that Wilson would turn you in?"

"Not at all," House answered.

"Why not?" Bernard asked, genuinely curious. "He took a huge risk."

"Wilson was my best friend," House explained. "We were closer than brothers. If he had been in my shoes, I would have done the same thing for him."

"Indeed," Bernard said with a sigh. He sat forward in his seat, leaning on his elbows on his desk. "Well Dr. House, you're going to end up back in prison, that's all but guaranteed, but for how long depends on how good of a plea deal I can arrange for you with the district attorney's office."

"What kind of plea deal?" Stacy asked, interjecting. "How are you intending to approach his situation?"

"First of all," Bernard began, "I'm going to attack the felony vandalism charges. I'm not a plumber, but even _I _know that plugging up one toilet in an institution as large as a hospital shouldn't completely compromise the entire plumbing system. I have one of my PIs looking into the condition of Princeton-Plainsboro's plumbing system as well as the city's system at the time of the incident. If my suspicions are right, that plumbing system was already in poor shape. That, and the fact that there were no witnesses to your flushing the tickets, should provide us with enough of a case for reasonable doubt that will convince the prosecution to drop the charge. So we're really looking at the fleeing of custody as the biggest obstacle to your freedom, Dr. House. There's no way we can deny that it happened. I'll try to convince the ADA in charge of the case against you that a jury would be more lenient to you out of compassion for the situation you found yourself in—wrongfully accused and facing a return to prison when a close friend is dying. It's unfortunate that Dr. Wilson wasn't your legal domestic partner, which would only make our case stronger."

House shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He wished that Stacy wasn't sitting next to him just then. He had to tell his lawyer something that would likely shock her.

"Actually," House spoke up, avoiding looking at Stacy, "Wilson _was_ more than just my friend. He and I…we were lovers until he died."

House didn't have to look directly at Stacy to know that her jaw dropped and she paled with surprise. Bernard didn't flinch, almost as if he had been expecting House to make that declaration. Of course there was no way the lawyer could have known that before House's confession, which meant he was very intuitive and observant. Those were qualities House respected but found rare in others.

"H-how long?" Stacy asked once she was able to find her voice. "I mean…was there always an attraction there or—?"

"Don't," House said softly, forcing him to meet her eyes now. "Don't go there. Wilson and I…we became lovers after my faked death, while we were on the road. There wasn't that same attraction there when you and I…when we were together; at least, not on my part. It developed gradually over the years since then."

She nodded slowly, taking that information in and processing it, still appearing stunned.

"That fact, Dr. House," Bernard told him, drawing their attention back to the matter at hand, "just might make a significant difference in your case. The ADA might be less inclined to take your case to trial and risk having a sympathetic jury hear your heart-rending need to be with the man you loved when he was dying. If handled properly, this could be very, very good for you."


	5. Chapter 5

**The Promise**

**Chapter Five**

House was quick on his cane when he needed to be but he had trouble keeping up with Stacy on their way to her car.

"You think you know a person," she said loudly enough for him to hear her several feet behind.

"Come off it!" House snarled. "You've always known that I have a very liberal and broad view on sex and sexual identity. I never hid anything like that from you."

"You told me stories of college parties that became little more than orgies," Stacy agreed, reaching her car and yanking open the driver's side door. "You never mentioned the part where your proclivities included being attracted to men as well as women."

"I never said they didn't, either," House answered as he reaching the car. He sounded slightly winded and looked at her over the roof of her car. "You never asked, I never told."

"Hm, gee," Stacy retorted with mock-consideration, "it occurs to me I've heard a certain cynical bastard proclaim in the past that omission is still a lie."

"I also said that everybody lies," House pointed out.

Stacy rolled her eyes and made a frustrated sound as she climbed into the driver's seat and slammed her door shut. House quickly climbed into the car, half expecting her to drive away without him if he dallied.

"What are you so angry about?" he asked her once they were on the road. "I never cheated on you when we were together, with a man or a woman. So I'm bisexual but I never came out and said the words. Would it have made a difference in the way you felt about me? Would you have avoided becoming involved with me had you known? Is Stacy Warner little more than a bigot?"

"You know damned well I'm not a bigot," she insisted angrily, keeping her eyes glued to the road. "But sexual identity is a big deal in a person's life. We were together five years and not once didn't you trust me enough to tell me the whole truth about yourself. What other important facts about you did you fail to tell me? It makes our relationship a lie."

"Our relationship was never a lie," House insisted steadily, staring at her with piercing blue eyes. "At least, not until after the infarction. And don't tell me that there are things about yourself that you haven't kept hidden from me. Everybody has secrets. _Everybody_." He paused a moment before venturing forward with, "I wanted _you_. That was never a lie."

He watches her; Stacy's face tells him all he needs to know about the emotional conflict taking place inside her at that moment. Reluctant acceptance seemed to win the battle.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you and James ended up together," she admitted grudgingly. "I sometimes wondered about him."

"Didn't we all," House commented, and it made her smile with reluctant amusement.

They drove in silence for nearly a half an hour before Stacy broke it.

"So…what was it like…being with Wilson in that way?" She stole a curious glance in House's direction.

"What do you mean, 'what was it like'?" House responded derisively. "What do you think it was like? We fucked each other, Stacy. I'm certain you're not so sheltered as to have no idea about the logistics."

Stacy rolled her eyes. "Not the actual sex. I'm talking about the other aspects of a relationship between two people, and you know it. So no omissions. Tell me."

House shook his head, baffled. "What do you want to know?"

Sighing, Stacy stopped the car at a red light and took the opportunity to look at him. "Was it just sex between James and you, or was there emotion as well?"

"Are you asking me if we were in love?" House demanded sardonically, interpreting.

"Yes," she answered plainly. The traffic light turned green and she returned her attention to her driving.

House was hesitant to answer. What he and Wilson had…there weren't words to properly describe it. "I was," House settled on at last. "I think he was, too."

"Didn't he tell you?" Stacy asked almost cautiously.

"Words…words are meaningless," House answered, looking out the passenger's side window as he spoke. "Actions are what count."

"And did his actions tell you that he loved you?" Stacy asked.

House was growing annoyed with the entire topic. Just talking about Wilson was like having someone plunge a dagger into his chest all over again.

"His actions," House said tersely, "were enough." With that he was finished with that topic. His hands held the cane resting between his legs with a white-knuckled grip. He started slightly when he felt Stacy's soft, manicured hand touch his briefly in what he assumed was her attempt to comfort him. He didn't want her pity or her comfort.

When they arrived at his motel in Trenton, Stacy told him, "Pack up your stuff. You can stay with me at my place until you turn yourself over to the police. My guest room is a hell of a lot cleaner and more comfortable than this dive."

"I don't know," House said with a wag of his eyebrows, "people might talk."

"Who gives a damn?" she replied with a small smile. "What I do and who I do it with is nobody's business but mine."

"Are you saying that we're going to be doing something?" he asked with a leer.

"Not the something you're thinking about," Stacy replied, still smiling. "Now let's get you packed up and checked out already."

After House was settled into Stacy's guest room he realized he hadn't eaten all day and was famished. He was pleased when he left his room and ventured toward the kitchen; the smell of something delicious cooking met his sensitive nose. Stacy had always been a good cook.

He found her standing at the stove, her back to him, stirring something in a pot before replacing the lid and lowering the heat of the burner.

"Let me guess," House said. "Pot roast soup."

"Good guess," Stacy acknowledged, turning to face him. She wore a white apron over a casual shirt and pants. Her deep brown hair was pulled back from her face and secured by a simple elastic. "I made it often enough when we were together."

"Every time you had something you wanted from me, because you knew I couldn't resist it," House recollected, approaching her. He reached around her to lift the lid off the pot to take a look at the contents. Satisfied, he replaced the lid. "So what do you want from me now?" He wagged his eyebrows suggestively.

Stacy rolled her eyes at him. "I don't want what you think," she answered, heading for the cabinet to grab a couple of bowls and two bread plates; she'd prepared cheese biscuits in advance and had warmed them to eat with the soup. "I just want to know what you plan on doing once you've served your sentence, whatever it may end up being."

"Oh, is that all," he replied sarcastically.

"Surely you have something in mind," she said, setting the kitchen table for the two of them. "I don't expect your answer to be written in stone."

"I'll have plenty of time to make up my mind while I'm rotting away behind bars," House said, trying to sound blithe but there was an edge to the tone of his voice that belied his dread. "I have nothing in particular planned yet." He took a seat at the table, glad to be off his aching leg.

"You'll end up back in medicine, won't you?" Stacy asked, returning to the stove to dish soup into their bowls. "It's your gift."

"I'm not certain medicine wants me back," House replied grimly. "Getting a new job as a former dead man and fugitive as well as ex-con is highly unlikely, at least in this country."

Stacy brought their bowls to the table and set out the biscuits and butter as well. "Self-pity is unbecoming," she told him as she sat down at the table with him.

"It's not self-pity," House countered, frowning. "It's fact. Besides…I'm not all that certain I still have the gift anymore. I know…I'll be a piano player at a piano bar. Drunk chicks dig gimpy piano bar players."

"High aspirations, indeed," Stacy said drily before gingerly spooning soup into her mouth.

"Right now all I care about is serving my time and regaining my freedom as well as my identity," House said firmly between spoonfuls of soup. "Anything after that is gratis. Maybe I'll actually get my Ph.D in theoretical physics."

"You mentioned that to me once, a long time ago," Stacy commented. "You told me when we first started dating that you had often contemplated that field before taking up medicine. I didn't take you all that seriously then…but you are serious, aren't you?"

"Semi-serious," he replied with a shrug. "Like I said, I have nothing specific decided yet. If that high-priced lawyer you got me screws this up, I may be too old to do much of anything by the time I get out of prison."

That thought hung heavy in the room as they continued to eat in companionable silence.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: ****The Promise**

**Author: pgrabia**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D. and its characters do not belong to me. I am only borrowing them for entertainment purposes only and I'm not making any money from this.

**Genre: **Drama/Romance/angst

**Characters/Pairing(s): **G. House, J. Wilson, S. Warner, E. Foreman and other canon characters, OCs/ House/Wilson preslash, House/Stacy friendship-UST.

**Word Count: **~1600

**Spoilers/Warnings: **General spoilers for all seasons up to and including the series finale, 8x22 "Everybody Dies". **Major character death.** Drug and alcohol use, coarse language, adult content.

**Rating: R (M) **(to be safe) unless otherwise advised.

**A/N: **This is my attempt to deal with my hatred of the final story arc in the series. The characters may be OOC. Sorry about that. Sorry too that this fic includes major character death. I don't usually write about that and if you find it to be a trigger for you then you best not read this.

Unbetaed, sorry.

**The Promise**

**Chapter Six**

"Quickly, tell me what you found out, Steve," Bernard asked his private detective over the secure land-line telephone in his office.

Stephen "Steve" Melnik had spent nearly two days in Princeton investigating both Princeton's and Princeton-Plainboro Teaching Hospitals plumbing and sewer systems. Bernard had had a hunch from the start that somewhere between the hospital or the town there was some kind of previous neglect or damage existent prior to House's act of stupidity, flushing tickets down a toilet. In an institution the size of a hospital, one plugged toilet shouldn't result in a catastrophic failure of the entire plumbing system. He'd sent his PI out to nose around and learn what he could in hope that his discoveries would work in Gregory House's favor.

"Your hunch was right, Deacon," the seasoned investigator told him. "The plumbing system had been neglected for years. Three inspections prior to the incident in question listed serious deficiencies and repairs were cited that had to be completed in order to pass. Four warnings were given after the inspection before the catastrophe at the hospital, and from all evidence, those warnings were ignored due to 'budget constraints'. I've got all the documentation you need to prove that the hospital's plumbing system was seriously compromised before the client allegedly flushed those tickets down the toilet."

"Excellent work, Steve," Bernard told him, grinning. "I look forward to perusing those documents, and I'm certain Dr. House will be pleased as well."

"I just sent the documents by special courier so they should reach you by tomorrow morning at the latest," Steve told him.

"Good enough. Talk to you later," Bernard said before hanging up and then placing a call to Stacy Warner's number. Stacy, of course, was the one to answer even though the lawyer knew his client was staying with her.

"I've put you on speakerphone so both Greg and I can hear you at the same time," Stacy informed him.

"Good news," Bernard told her. "Princeton-Plainsboro's plumbing is the pits and was even worse when House was accused of vandalism. My PI has all the documentation we need to cast reasonable doubt. I have an appointment with the ADA tomorrow to put out feelers for the possibility of a plea deal that will be satisfactory and I'm certain this new information will help our case immensely. If Dr. House hadn't been wrongfully accused of felony vandalism, his parole wouldn't have been revoked and he wouldn't have been in a panic to remain free for the sake of his dying friend and lover. Juries eat this kind of thing up. I don't think I'll have any trouble getting the felony vandalism charges dropped."

"That all and good but it doesn't change the fact that I fled from custody and am a fugitive," House pointed out. "How are you planning on dealing with that?"

"That is going to be where it gets a bit tricky," Bernard admitted. "I'll be trying to have the penalty for that reduced because of mitigating factors—namely, the fact that your parole was unjustly revoked and that you fled and faked your death so you could be there for Dr. Wilson and care for him until he passed away. I'll try to convince the ADA that she would be facing a possible sympathetic judge and jury and her best bet would be a plea deal. It won't be as easy as it sounds and I may not succeed. You may end up spending the maximum time in prison, Greg. You have to be prepared for that—but it's not time to panic yet. After my meeting with the ADA, I'll have a better sense of how you should turn yourself over to the authorities and when. It has to happen, Greg. The sooner, the better for your sake."

"I know," House acknowledged quietly. "I won't apologize for running, Bernard. Wilson was the most important person in the world to me, and I would have done anything to be with him at the end of his life. I wasn't going to waste that precious time locked up for flushing some paper down a toilet."

"If we're lucky and I do my job right, both the ADA and the judge might be sympathetic to the situation you found yourself in," Deacon said soberly. "I'd like to see both of you in my office tomorrow afternoon so we can go over the information gleaned by my investigator and further plan our strategy."

"And plan for my surrender," House added, his voice grim.

"What time do you want us to arrive at, Deacon?" Stacy asked and then jotted down the information as Bernard gave it to her. "Okay, we'll see you then," she added before the call ended.

Stacy's hands went to her hips as she turned to look at House. "Things look positive."

"Appearances can be deceiving," House told her, frowning. He knew that she could be right but didn't want to acknowledge that and get his hopes up only to have them dashed to pieces. If he expected to spend the maximum amount of time in prison, when it actually happened it wouldn't blindside him.

HHH

"Gregory House is _alive_?"

It was the amazed question offered by Assistant District Attorney Laura Preston. She sat up in her desk chair and then stood up, towering above the seated Deacon Bernard. She spoke almost loudly enough to be heard outside her cubbyhole of an office. Bernard did a valiant job of maintaining a calm façade.

"Yes. He is…and he's ready to turn himself in. However, he understandably wants to spend as little time back behind bars as possible. We both know those ridiculous charges of felony vandalism were a farce, Laura. He allegedly plugged one toilet—I have solid proof that the hospital's and Princeton's sewer systems were in shitty condition at the time of the damage done to Princeton-Plainsboro hospital. In court I could get those charges dropped as spurious like that." He snapped his fingers. "A jury of his peers would most likely be sympathetic to the situation he found himself in, unfairly being sent back to prison on unreasonable charges. When they find out he faked his death so he could be with his partner and nurse him in the last months of his life, they'll be putty in my hands and you know it."

"You're not full of yourself at all, are you Deac?" Laura said sardonically, sitting back down at her desk. "He's a dangerous, violent offender who skipped legal custody and committed fraud—"

"Only because he felt he had no other choice," Bernard countered, cutting her off. "He felt cornered by those ridiculous charges against him, charges without any useful evidence whatsoever. As for dangerous, that's debatable. He doesn't impress me as the typical domestic abuser. And might I remind you that the first time he was arrested he turned himself in and didn't fight the charges nor the sentence handed down."

"If he didn't die in that fire, who did?" Preston demanded. "And how did he manage to fool the authorities?"

"I can't go into specifics, of course," Bernard answered calmly, tapping the armrests of his chair with the fingers on both hands, "but the body found belonged to a heroin addict who overdosed and died while House was out cold from his own use of the drug. House came down from the high and woke up to find the other man dead from an obvious overdose and the factory on fire. He has no idea how the fire was started but is certain he had nothing to do with it."

"So he says," Preston replied, scowling. "How do I know he didn't kill the other man so he could pull off his supposed death and escape from custody?"

"You don't," Deacon replied smoothly, "but you don't know that he did, either, and any evidence there might or might not have been burned up with that factory. Personally, I believe his story. I think I could convince a jury as well, not that you would have anything powerful enough to hang on potential charges."

"Why was House using heroin?" Preston asked, sighing.

"His best friend and the man he was in love with was dying of cancer, and those unfair charges against him meant he would be in prison for the last months of Dr. Wilson's life. Being an opiate addict to start with, I think it only makes sense that he would try to escape the pain he felt with heroin. Listen, Dr. House promised his lover before he died that he would continue on with his life after Dr. Wilson's passing. He wants to fulfill his promise. He knows he'll have to spend some time behind bars for what he did and is willing to turn himself in."

"So you're here for a plea deal," Preston concluded drily.

"I think it's for the best," Bernard told her. "If you saw the evidence I have in my possession, you'd drop the felony vandalism charges immediately and I know you're not keen to trust a jury with his story."

"So cough it up," Preston demanded. "What are you looking for?"

Bernard paused only a moment—for effect—before answering. "First, I want the felony vandalism charges dropped. Second, I want him to spend no more than the six months remaining on his original sentence behind bars. He shouldn't have had his parole rescinded to begin with, so I think I'm being very generous with you, Laura."

"He faked his death and was on the lamb for over six months!"

"His lover was dying!" Bernard reacted, forcing himself to remain calm. "He needed to be there with him until the end. He didn't go to that factory with the plan to fake his death—the idea came to him after nearly being killed by a falling beam. It wasn't premeditated. He acknowledges that what he did was illegal and he's willing to go back to prison to finish his sentence. If you force this to trial, I have a very good chance of getting him off and you know it. Don't forget that you owe me for the Durnam case, Laura. Those are my terms."

Preston shook her head in disbelief and exhaled loudly. "I'll take it up with the boss and get back to you."

"The sooner you do, the sooner House turns himself in," Bernard told her, rising smoothly to his feet and walking out of her office without another word exchanged. He could feel Preston's eyes boring resentfully into his back until the door shut and separated them.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: ****The Promise**

**Author: pgrabia**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D. and its characters do not belong to me. I am only borrowing them for entertainment purposes only and I'm not making any money from this.

**Genre: **Drama/Romance/angst

**Characters/Pairing(s): **G. House, J. Wilson, S. Warner, E. Foreman and other canon characters, OCs/ House/Wilson preslash, House/Stacy friendship-UST.

**Word Count: **~1600

**Spoilers/Warnings: **General spoilers for all seasons up to and including the series finale, 8x22 "Everybody Dies". **Major character death.** Drug and alcohol use, coarse language, adult content.

**Rating: R (M) **(to be safe) unless otherwise advised.

**A/N: **This is my attempt to deal with my hatred of the final story arc in the series. The characters may be OOC. Sorry about that. Sorry too that this fic includes major character death. I don't usually write about that and if you find it to be a trigger for you then you best not read this.

Unbetaed, sorry.

**The Promise**

**Chapter Seven**

Stacy sat on a stool next to the kitchen island, watching as House sautéed some onions in a pan over the countertop burner. She nursed a glass of wine.

"Why didn't you ever offer to cook when we were together?" she asked him with a smile.

"'Cause I was already doing you so I didn't have to impress you, and you automatically took it on so I didn't have to," House answered, smirking.

"I didn't know you knew how to cook," Stacy pointed out, rolling her eyes.

"Just because I'm too lazy to do something doesn't mean I don't know how to do it," he explained with a shrug. "Do you have Paprika?"

"In the spice rack on the counter behind you," Stacy told him, and then took a sip of wine. "Chicken Paprika," she hummed. "I could get used to this."

"My advice is not to," House said as he grabbed the bottle of Paprika and added some to the sautéed onions. "I won't be around much longer and I don't think the DOC would grant me passes to visit and cook for you."

"You won't be in prison forever," she assured him seriously. "Even if Deacon can't arrange a decent plea bargain, you won't be in there for the rest of your life."

"And you'll be waiting for me, right?" House sneered, rolling his brilliant blue eyes.

"Who knows?" Stacy replied, watching herself running her thumb along the rim of her wine glass. "Maybe I will."

"Right," House said, sounding unconvinced. "Don't. You haven't told me yet why you and Mark are no more."

"You're right," she agreed, grabbing the wine bottle resting on the island and pouring more wine into her nearly empty glass, "I haven't." She said no more, smiling knowingly.

"Hey, don't drink all of that," he told her, grabbing the bottle and placing it out of her reach. "I need to add that along with the chicken stock."

They were silent for a while as he cooked and she watched but it wasn't uncomfortable. After a few minutes Stacy broke the silence.

"We separated because I wasn't over you," she admitted quietly, avoiding looking at his face. As if looking for fortification she took a generous swallow of wine. "I went to your damned funeral without him; he hadn't wanted me to go to it but I went anyway. It was at the funeral, when I was convinced you were gone for good, that I realized I still had unresolved feelings for you—"

"Stacy," he interrupted but she cut him off.

"I _know_," she assured him. "Even if you weren't headed back to prison, you're still mourning James and besides, that ship has sailed, yadda yadda. I'm just explaining to you why Mark and I are in the process of a divorce."

She lifted soft eyes to meet House's gaze, which was focused on her. His facial expression was soft, contemplative. He didn't say anything, and after a moment or two he returned his attention back to his cooking.

"I realized that I was still…stuck…on you," Stacy told him with a sad sigh. "When I came home from Princeton I tried to put you behind me again. After all, you were dead, right? Except, I couldn't stop mourning you and I didn't do a very good job hiding it from Mark. Two weeks after you 'died', Mark packed his bags and left while I was in court. At least he left a note. I can't blame him, as much as I want to."

House added the chicken stock and then some wine to the pan. "I know what you're thinking. You're not in love with me," he told her frankly. "You're in love with the idea of what it might be like if we were together. There's a difference."

"Don't tell me how I feel," Stacy told him indignantly. "You don't know how I feel. Relax. I have no illusions about you feeling the same way, or ever wanting to try again."

"Stacy, I—," House started and then stopped himself, frustrated, searching for the right thing to say, but he had no idea what that right thing was. "I can't even begin to entertain the thought—look, my freedom is just an illusion. I'm a prisoner, I just haven't been apprehended yet. And yes, I'm still trying to adjust after Wilson's death. You're better off without me."

"Probably," she agreed, smiling wryly, "but I've always been a little masochistic."

"Which explains why you were attracted to me to begin with," House said, but he was smiling softly as he said it. He turned to grab the browned chicken breasts from the counter behind him and added them to the contents of the pan and then turned the heat down and covered the pan to allow the flavors to simmer together.

The phone rang, and Stacy got up to answer it. She went into the other room where the phone was. A moment later she returned to the kitchen still holding the cordless.

"That was Deacon," she told House without him having to ask. "He met with the ADA earlier today. He wants you to show up at our meeting tomorrow prepared to surrender yourself to the police." She sounded slightly stunned. "I didn't think things would move quite this fast."

House sighed quietly. "I did," he admitted, fighting the urge to grab his wallet and jacket and flee to the other side of the country at that very moment. "Did he say how the meeting went?"

Stacy shook her head. "No, but he sounded upbeat. Are you ready for this?"

House shrugged, rounding the island to stand in front of Stacy. "No one is ever ready to go to prison. It's not summer camp."

Before House knew what was happening Stacy had wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a hug. He stiffened slightly but didn't push her away. After a few moments his arms came up to loosely hold her. She still knew how to fit perfectly in his arms after all these years. Knowing that he had to be careful not to transmit the wrong message, House broke the embrace gently.

"Dinner is almost ready," he told her before turning away and returning to the meal he was preparing, avoiding her gaze and fighting the feeling of doom coming upon him.

"Don't do that," Stacy told him firmly, moving to stand with the island between them. "Don't withdraw and become stony like you have to protect me, Greg. I'm a big girl. You don't have to face this alone."

"I _am_ alone in this," he argued. "They aren't going to give you the neighboring cell, you know. Once they put the cuffs on my wrists I'm on my own. It's better that way."

"I'll visit you," she offered but he shook his head at that.

"It'll be better for you if you don't."

"Bullshit!" she snapped. "You faced prison alone last time, and I'm sorry about that. You don't have to face it alone this time. I won't let you."

She spun around and strode out the room giving him no opportunity to argue. He sighed in defeat.


	8. Chapter 8

**Title: ****The Promise**

**Author: pgrabia**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D. and its characters do not belong to me. I am only borrowing them for entertainment purposes only and I'm not making any money from this.

**Genre: **Drama/Romance/angst

**Characters/Pairing(s): **G. House, J. Wilson, S. Warner, E. Foreman and other canon characters, OCs/ House/Wilson preslash, House/Stacy friendship-UST.

**Word Count: **~1600

**Spoilers/Warnings: **General spoilers for all seasons up to and including the series finale, 8x22 "Everybody Dies". **Major character death.** Drug and alcohol use, coarse language, adult content.

**Rating: R (M) **(to be safe) unless otherwise advised.

**A/N: **This is my attempt to deal with my hatred of the final story arc in the series. The characters may be OOC. Sorry about that. Sorry too that this fic includes major character death. I don't usually write about that and if you find it to be a trigger for you then you best not read this.

Unbetaed, sorry.

**I'm not a lawyer so I don't know NJ law, so what you read here is fiction and probably inaccurate in real-life, but I'm taking creative liberty:) To all who have reviewed this fic thus far, thank you so much and please continue to review. I read them all!**

**The Promise**

**Chapter Eight**

House knew he was either dreaming or hallucinating when Wilson entered Stacy's guest room and came to sit on the edge of the bed next to him. He looked young and beautiful, just as he had when House first met him, not sick and wasted like he was at the end.

"You're not real," House whispered, feeling a burning in his chest.

"I'm as real as you need me to be," Wilson told him with a smile. "I'm so proud of you."

House shook his head; just the sight of his late lover and soul mate caused him indescribable pain…but also a hint of joy. "For what?"

"For taking this step," Wilson answered, reaching out and gently touching House's cheek. House closed his eyes; this had to be a powerful hallucination because he could feel the softness of that hand. "For continuing with your life rather than giving up."

"I promised you," House replied simply, shrugging. "I wanted to give up. Sometimes I still do."

"But you won't," Wilson assured him. "You're braver than I ever was. You'll survive prison, and then you can start all over again."

"Chances are I won't get my medical license back," House told him. "I'm not even certain I want to go back into medicine, even if I could."

"You have a gift, Greg," Wilson insisted. "One that you can't deny."

"_Had_ a gift, Jimmy. Besides, who will trigger my epiphanies now that you're…gone." House felt like he was going to choke and couldn't speak for a while.

"I'll always be with you here," Wilson assured him, touching his temple softly, "and here." He moved his hand to lay it over House's heart.

"It's not the same," House argued, shaking his head. "Things will never be the same again."

"No, they won't," Wilson acknowledged, "but that doesn't mean you can't find happiness again. You have to open your heart, and learn to trust people. You need to take a chance on people like you did with me in that police station in New Orleans."

"No one will ever replace you," House said stubbornly.

"Maybe you can learn to create a new place in your heart for someone new," Wilson told him, cupping his cheek again. "Or maybe for someone not so new."

House knew he was referring to Stacy. "I never loved her the way I loved you."

"Like I said," Wilson replied gently, "Maybe you'll be able to love her differently now. Neither of you are the same people you were the first time around. Maybe age and experience will make the difference."

"I loved you, Jimmy. I never told you, but I did."

"I know. I loved you, too. Loving someone else won't negate that. Stacy wants to be there for you. Let her."

~HHH~

House's voice coming from the bedroom next door to hers woke Stacy from a restless sleep. He was talking to someone. Had some one telephoned him and she had slept through the ring? Had he contacted someone? Since she was curious and couldn't really sleep anyway Stacy got out of bed, pulled on a robe, and padded her way to the guest room.

Carefully she opened the door a crack and peeked in. House laid in the bed, and light from streetlamps outside the window reflected off of the tears on his cheeks. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be dreaming.

"Don't go, Jimmy," he slurred softly in his sleep. "please…no, don't…don't leave me again…"

Stacy silently closed the door; shaken by the sight of House in tears, dreaming about the lover and best friend he had tragically lost. Part of her wanted to go to him, wake him from his nightmare and comfort him. She knew better than to do that, though; she knew House would be humiliated and would push away her attempts to make him feel better. The best thing she could do for him was to leave him alone, and never tell him that she had caught him in such a vulnerable state.

She returned to her own bed, her heart aching for him. It took her quite some time to return to a troubled sleep.

~HHH~

House woke early the next morning and made certain to shower in case he didn't get another chance before returning to prison. After popping a Vicodin to ease the painful roar in his ruined thigh, he contemplated his face in the bathroom mirror for a few moments before pulling over his toiletry bag. He took out an electric razor, adjusted the setting, and shaved his face smooth. He then returned to the guest room to dress for his meeting with Deacon Bernard.

Once he was dressed he headed for the kitchen and found Stacy already there and the coffee brewed and ready for him. She poured him a mug and sweetened it the way he liked before handing it to him. He noticed how her hand trembled, threatening to slosh coffee over the rim of the mug.

"You should eat," she told him. "I'll make you something. How about some eggs?" She turned to head to the fridge when House reached out and grabbed her forearm gently, staying her.

"We'll stop for breakfast on our way to Bernard's office, my treat," House told her, releasing his hold on her.

"I'm not really hungry," she told him ruefully. "How can you be so calm? I'm not the one who could potentially end up behind bars before the day is through and I'm a nervous wreck!"

House shrugged. "I know what to expect this time. I've been preparing myself for this since I made that damned promise to Wilson."

"Still, you can't be thrilled with the prospect of being behind bars again," Stacy argued, shaking her head. "I wish I could do something to help you, Greg!"

House set his coffee down and gently grasped her shoulders, holding her at slightly less than arms length from himself. He could feel her trembling and it moved him (not that he would ever admit it).

"You have helped me, Stacy," House told her almost gently. "I'm indebted to you."

"I wish I could do more," she insisted. "I love you, Greg."

House pulled her close enough for him to place a tender kiss to her forehead. "I know," he assured her. "Come on, let's go."

~HHH~

House and Stacy were shown into Bernard's office by one of his assistants as soon as they arrived. Bernard looked up from some paperwork he was working on and set it aside, giving his client and co-counsel his undivided attention. He waited to speak until his assistant had excused herself from his office and had shut the door behind her.

"Here's the situation," Bernard began, coming around to stand in front of his desk and lean against it as House and Stacy sat down in the visitor's chairs. "The ADA I talked to managed to get you a plea deal from her boss. It's not exactly what I wanted, but I think it's about as good as we're going to get. They're willing to waive the Felony Vandalism charges altogether if you serve three months in a psychiatric institution for detox and anger management therapy followed by pain management therapy and twelve months in a minimum-security prison. It took me some wheedling to get them talked in to sending you to a minimum-security facility, I can tell you.

"My strong recommendation as your legal counsel is that you take this deal. You could be facing a minimum of five years in prison if not for this deal. The ADA pulled a lot of favors to get you this. You'll be required to plead guilty to escaping from legal custody and second-degree fraud for the faked death. This deal is only good until tomorrow at midnight. If you fail to turn yourself in to the authorities by then, the deal is off the table and they hit you hard with everything they've got."

House took this in with silence—fifteen months in custody; Mayfield all over again plus a year of prison. Could he handle that long? He had to admit to himself that it was more lenient that what he was expecting; even so, he wasn't thrilled with the prospect. However, this time he was being sent to a minimum security prison instead of the maximum where he'd previously served time. Perhaps he could study theoretical physics via distance learning while there. He wouldn't have to face Mendelsohn and his cohort or thugs this time, though he was certain that there would be someone like the prison gangster at the medium-security institution as well.

"Can we select which psychiatric institution?" House inquired. He glanced over at Stacy; she was pale but perfectly composed and professional.

"I can do my best to get you placed in one of our choosing, but ultimately that's up to the court," Bernard told him. "I know it seems like more time than what we were hoping for—"

"I'll take it," House said quietly, cutting his lawyer off. "Get me committed to Mayfield. It's where I detoxed once before and where my former shrink works. If I have to go back to the nuthouse and see another quack, it might as well be one I'm familiar with."

"I'll see what I can finagle," Bernard answered with a nod. "Are you prepared to turn yourself in to the police today?"

House felt Stacy grab his hand and squeeze it. He looked her in the eye and took a deep breath before nodding.

"I'm ready."

"I'll accompany Greg to the police station," Stacy offered. House nodded, relieved to hear that.

"You'll spend time in county lock-up until your psychiatric assignment has been established," Bernard cautioned him. "That could take from anywhere from a few days to several weeks, depending how many hoops we have to jump through to get you assigned to Mayfield. After treatment there you'll likely be assigned to Northern State Prison in Newark for the remainder of your sentence. I'll be in regular contact with you while you're in county and of course I'll be there with you in court when you render your plea to the judge."

House nodded, standing with help from his cane. "Fine. Let's get this over with."

Stacy stood as well, offering her hand to Bernard, who shook it. "Thank you, Deacon, for all that you've done."

"You're welcome," the defense attorney replied. "Hang in there, Greg. We'll try to make this as painless as possible."

House doubted that the attorney could do much to take away the agony of detox and the harsh, restrictive monotony of prison life, but he knew that things could be a lot worse for him had he not had the lawyer in his corner.

_For you, Wilson,_ House thought grimly as he followed Stacy out of Bernard's office and headed for her car.


End file.
